Random Fact: My least favorite person is Andrew Dice Clay.
Each week, I assume my millions of readers enjoy my blog from the comfort of their own home. After a long day at the office, what better way to unwind than to slip into a pair of your most comfortable jammies, brew a steaming cup of tea with a touch of golden honey, wrap an old and reliable blanket around your weary shoulders, and settle into a favorite nook on your expansive and welcoming couch while reading your favorite blog. Your couch practically beckons you, “SIT ON ME,” and you gladly oblige. Once seated, you laugh aloud to your heart’s content while reading Life Without a Bulla, and the stresses of your day seem a distant memory as your eyelids feel heavy and the couch’s comfort lulls you into a blissful nap.
I however, have never been afforded such a luxury. Sure, I’ve got more jammies than I care to count, and the tea selection in my kitchen cabinets is overwhelming, to say the least (Celestial Seasonings, you owe me one). As for blankets, my apartment is equipped with blankets of every size, shape, and style to handle the harsh, biting winters that the Windy City and my poorly insulated apartment dishes out. Then what’s stopping me from experiencing the joys of my blog just as my beloved fans do, you ask? A COUCH, my dear readers, a couch.
From the moment I left home at age nineteen to move to the big city, there has been a distinct and painful absence from my life. No, I haven’t been ‘couchless’ for the past four and a half years, but I have had a turbulent, on again off again relationship with couches. My first apartment in Chicago’s ‘Loop’ was fitted with an old brown couch that my roommate and best friend Rick brought from his last pad. It wasn’t fancy by any means, but it got the job done. And as my current couchless self reflects on that brown lump, I realize I may have taken it for granted. It was reliable and loyal, complete with a matching recliner. It gave me ‘lulus’ when I was sick and provided a home for friends who needed a place to sleep. In fact, it was home to my creepy pervert roommate’s toothless and bruised mom when she and her five year old son decided to stay with us indefinitely in our two bedroom apartment. As a sign of gratitude for a place to sleep, she insisted I borrow her Opium perfume as often as I liked. I just wanted my couch back. If you’re reading this brown couch, I’m sorry.
As I moved to Lakeview a year later, my true couchless years began. For months, I sat on my carpeted living room floor, feeling like a squatter in my own home. I propped assorted throw pillows against the wall to create the illusion of a couch. As I sat on the floor and fiddled with the rabbit ears antenna on my 17 inch television, I took inventory of my life. I knew the life of a college student wasn’t supposed to be glamorous, but I was sure that my current status was borderline poverty. So, Sara and I worked a little magic and convinced my mom to purchase a fancy new futon from Wal-Mart as an early Christmas gift. Four hours and a lot of arguing later, Sara and I had built a futon (disclaimer: As her sister, I am obligated to include Sara in the futon building effort. In reality, Sara spent two of the four hours watching E! and half-assing it. Love you sis).
However, our smiles quickly faded as the futon began to slowly dismantle and eventually break. Perhaps, we were too enthusiastic and careless in our sitting, or maybe four hours of construction time still resulted in a substandard futon. I don’t know, I’m not a carpenter. But I do know now that the futon is only the dim-witted cousin of the couch, and does not deserve the same regard. So after only months of futon life, we were once again squatters.
This lifestyle continued for a YEAR in my new apartment as well. However, rather than sitting directly on our hard-wood floors, I resourcefully used our old futon mattress pad and our reliable assorted throw pillows as a faux couch. Essentially, we were still sitting on the floor, but the luxurious arrangement I had created lent to the sense of being in an exotic Middle Eastern harem (minus the concubines), or so I pretended. In reality, the futon mattress was no thicker than two inches, and I had just gotten used to the butt numbness one feels after sitting on a hard wood floor for too long.
But then, a turn of events. God turned his smiling face on my sister and me. A spare couch at my mom’s house. Sara’s friend’s pickup truck. Two guys with big couch-moving muscles and an afternoon off. KISMET. After years of waiting, it only took an afternoon to change my life. At first, I worried that perhaps I couldn’t adjust to a couch. Much like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway still chooses to sleep on the bedroom floor after being rescued, would I still prefer the solid ‘comfort’ of the ground? Did I remember how to sit on a couch at all?
I however, have never been afforded such a luxury. Sure, I’ve got more jammies than I care to count, and the tea selection in my kitchen cabinets is overwhelming, to say the least (Celestial Seasonings, you owe me one). As for blankets, my apartment is equipped with blankets of every size, shape, and style to handle the harsh, biting winters that the Windy City and my poorly insulated apartment dishes out. Then what’s stopping me from experiencing the joys of my blog just as my beloved fans do, you ask? A COUCH, my dear readers, a couch.
From the moment I left home at age nineteen to move to the big city, there has been a distinct and painful absence from my life. No, I haven’t been ‘couchless’ for the past four and a half years, but I have had a turbulent, on again off again relationship with couches. My first apartment in Chicago’s ‘Loop’ was fitted with an old brown couch that my roommate and best friend Rick brought from his last pad. It wasn’t fancy by any means, but it got the job done. And as my current couchless self reflects on that brown lump, I realize I may have taken it for granted. It was reliable and loyal, complete with a matching recliner. It gave me ‘lulus’ when I was sick and provided a home for friends who needed a place to sleep. In fact, it was home to my creepy pervert roommate’s toothless and bruised mom when she and her five year old son decided to stay with us indefinitely in our two bedroom apartment. As a sign of gratitude for a place to sleep, she insisted I borrow her Opium perfume as often as I liked. I just wanted my couch back. If you’re reading this brown couch, I’m sorry.
As I moved to Lakeview a year later, my true couchless years began. For months, I sat on my carpeted living room floor, feeling like a squatter in my own home. I propped assorted throw pillows against the wall to create the illusion of a couch. As I sat on the floor and fiddled with the rabbit ears antenna on my 17 inch television, I took inventory of my life. I knew the life of a college student wasn’t supposed to be glamorous, but I was sure that my current status was borderline poverty. So, Sara and I worked a little magic and convinced my mom to purchase a fancy new futon from Wal-Mart as an early Christmas gift. Four hours and a lot of arguing later, Sara and I had built a futon (disclaimer: As her sister, I am obligated to include Sara in the futon building effort. In reality, Sara spent two of the four hours watching E! and half-assing it. Love you sis).
However, our smiles quickly faded as the futon began to slowly dismantle and eventually break. Perhaps, we were too enthusiastic and careless in our sitting, or maybe four hours of construction time still resulted in a substandard futon. I don’t know, I’m not a carpenter. But I do know now that the futon is only the dim-witted cousin of the couch, and does not deserve the same regard. So after only months of futon life, we were once again squatters.
This lifestyle continued for a YEAR in my new apartment as well. However, rather than sitting directly on our hard-wood floors, I resourcefully used our old futon mattress pad and our reliable assorted throw pillows as a faux couch. Essentially, we were still sitting on the floor, but the luxurious arrangement I had created lent to the sense of being in an exotic Middle Eastern harem (minus the concubines), or so I pretended. In reality, the futon mattress was no thicker than two inches, and I had just gotten used to the butt numbness one feels after sitting on a hard wood floor for too long.
But then, a turn of events. God turned his smiling face on my sister and me. A spare couch at my mom’s house. Sara’s friend’s pickup truck. Two guys with big couch-moving muscles and an afternoon off. KISMET. After years of waiting, it only took an afternoon to change my life. At first, I worried that perhaps I couldn’t adjust to a couch. Much like Tom Hanks’ character in Castaway still chooses to sleep on the bedroom floor after being rescued, would I still prefer the solid ‘comfort’ of the ground? Did I remember how to sit on a couch at all?
As it turns out, no- I do not prefer my hard wood floors to a couch and sitting proved to be effortless. In fact, I write this very blog from the comfort of my couch with a steaming cup of tea and a warm blanket. Now let me tell you a little story about my twin size bed…
